Unspoken Words
by ilovesunshine93
Summary: Sherlock didn't speak a word to Molly during the night in her flat after his fall. But he was slowly breaking, and so was she.


_Lights will guide you home,_

_And ignite your bones._

_And I will try_

_To fix you._

* * *

Sherlock didn't speak a word to Molly during the night in her flat after his fall.

She had pushed him to her bed, refusing to let him sleep on the sofa. He had accepted wordlessly, too tired to argue.

He woke up in the middle of the night, sweating profusely from a nightmare. He saw Moriarty's triumphant grin and John's anguished face. He almost thought that he had failed. He had shouted out in fear.

Molly came into the bedroom with a warm drink to calm him down. He felt like a baby and didn't speak to her. He saw fear and pain in her eyes and his heart clenched so tightly. She was about to leave the bedroom when he grabbed onto her hand, unable to speak. His eyes pleaded with her.

She, as usual, knew what he wanted. She climbed under the duvet and laid beside him, leaving a gap between them. He fell asleep to the sound of her soft breathing.

Somewhere along the night, her hand held his.

He woke up earlier than her the next morning. His eyes softened at the sight of her messy hair and small figure. But he knew what he had to do.

He left her with only a note.

_**I need to track down Moriarty's network. – SH**_

Molly cried when she read the note. She wished fervently that he would come back soon.

* * *

Sherlock didn't come back for the next year.

Molly had learnt not to hope. She went to work and put up a smiley front. She went back and spent her nights alone, with only her cat Toby for company. Sometimes, she would cry herself to sleep. It happened more frequently when it rained. The rain dug a hole in her heart and it reminded her of _him. _

Eventually, he did come back.

His head was bloody and he couldn't walk properly. He stumbled into her flat, breathing unevenly.

Molly panicked when she saw him, but she was so happy that he wasn't dead. She washed off the blood from his curls gently. She was thankful that he didn't suffer from any broken bones; he just had a badly sprained ankle and some bruises. She made some soup for him. He drank it silently.

He saw the happiness in her eyes and he felt warmth chorused through him. He wanted to thank her, needed to thank her. But the words wouldn't flow. He gazed silently at her, taking in her warm eyes, her soft hair and her sweet smile. She blushed when she caught him staring.

When it was time for bed, she laid beside him wordlessly. This time, he held her hand first. He felt his chest tightening dangerously – he had not had any human touch for a year. He was craving for some warmth and her hand felt so good in his. He moved closer to her, hoping to share her warmth. He needed it.

That night, he slept without nightmares.

* * *

He got restless after a few days in her flat. He felt cooped up like a chicken. But he couldn't run around and chase Moriarty's remaining network with a badly sprained ankle and deep purple bruises.

He started to get irritated with Molly. He saw her emotions, the very thing he detested, portrayed so obviously on her face. He was angry that she couldn't hide them like he did. _Weakness. _

The stress of the past year finally came tumbling down on him. He needed an outlet to release them.

So he snapped at her. He criticised everything she did. He deduced mean things about her. He saw pain reflected in her eyes at his words and it just made him angrier. He kept pushing the limit, testing her breaking point. He said the worst thing to her one night.

And finally she broke.

She cried in front of him, something she had never done before. A strangled cry rose from her throat before she ran into her bathroom and locked herself in. He could hear loud sobs.

He felt a heavy pain in his chest when he heard those sounds. His heart ached and he wanted to apologise. But again, the words wouldn't come. They always didn't come in these situations.

Molly changed after that night. She avoided his gaze. She didn't talk to him. If she did, she did so mechanically. She stopped sleeping beside him. The silence between them was so fragile that the drop of a pin threatened to shatter everything.

He left as soon as he was well enough to be running around. This time, he felt too ashamed to leave a note, thinking that she didn't want one.

* * *

Molly went about her life after Sherlock left. She didn't even bother to hope that he would come back. He didn't leave a note – it was clear that he was not planning to return. At least not to her.

She tried returning to her old life. Doing autopsies, meeting friends and watching movies. She even went on a few dates. But she was never interested long enough with any of the men. Somehow, Sherlock kept returning to her mind, like a fixed spot that refused to budge. She knew then that she belonged to him. She _loved _him. It was too late to run. And she hated that. Sometimes, she wondered if she even hated him.

She awoke one night to the sound of someone pacing around her flat. She went out of her bedroom in fright, only to discover that it was Sherlock. He told her that he was almost done and the remaining criminals were living in the UK. If she was surprised, she never said anything, reverting back to the shell she had created to protect herself from him.

He wasn't injured this time. So she wordlessly handed him blankets and pillows, gesturing to her sofa.

Sherlock's heart had almost stopped when he saw her emerge from her bedroom. He was so _happy _when he saw her familiar figure. He often thought of her when he was tracking the criminal network. He yearned to touch her, to feel her warmness.

But his face betrayed nothing.

They danced this silent dance for a few more days. He felt himself breaking when he saw the dead look in her eyes. He wished that she would just shout at him or even hit him. Just do something. But she went about her life, ignoring him the best she could. When he couldn't tolerate the silence anymore, he went out for a walk in the chill London air.

He wished he hadn't.

Sebastian Moran appeared in Molly's flat when Sherlock was away. He returned to broken chairs, an overturned table and a dead Toby. He gently wrapped the dead cat in his scarf. He found a note on Molly's bed.

_**Watch me burn her pretty little heart. – Sebastian**_

Sherlock felt anger, panic, fear and worry grip his heart and he felt an urge to vomit. He needed to find Molly fast. He even resorted to calling Mycroft for help. Together, the brothers were able to track Moran down, who (luckily for him) hadn't done much harm to Molly yet. She managed to escape with just a bad bruise on her temple.

Mycroft ensured that Moran was imprisoned.

Sherlock would have just killed him given the chance.

The two of them went back to Molly's flat after the ordeal. She didn't say a word to Sherlock at all. She went into the bathroom and locked herself in again. Sherlock knew that she was lying in the bathtub – it was her way to comfort herself.

He heard the sobs again and he couldn't stand the pain in his chest. So he picked her lock and entered the bathroom.

Just as he had expected, Molly was curled in a fetal position in the bathtub. He didn't know what to say, so he decided to use actions instead.

He stepped into her bathtub gingerly, laying down beside her. She had lost so much weight since he last saw her (6 pounds) that he could actually fit in the bathtub with her. Her back was to him, so he wrapped his arms around her waist, willing her to stop crying. To stop making that one sound that broke his heart.

He needed to fix her, because by fixing her, he was fixing himself.

"Please Molly, stop crying. Please." he pleaded, turning her to face him so that he could look into her eyes.

It felt like the most natural thing to do then. So without thinking (the first time for him), he leaned in to kiss her. His lips touched hers and for a moment he forgot everything. Her lips were soft and warm and he tasted cherries and apples. His heart started pounding and he felt his blood rushing. Molly stiffened by the suddenness of his action but he felt her returning the kiss after a moment. He placed his arm behind her neck, bringing her closer to him, deepening their kiss. He felt her fingers gently tugging his curls and he moaned softly. They only broke apart when the need for air called.

"I'm sorry Molly. I'm sorry." He whispered. "I didn't mean to say those things to you."

She leaned her head on his chest, breathing in his scent, listening to his heartbeat. She felt so safe in his arms and she didn't want him to let go. The only thought she had when Moran captured her was whether Sherlock would be safe. She had been terrified. She kissed his neck tenderly, whispering _I love you _to him.

Those words were like music to Sherlock. He couldn't believe that she still loved him after what he had put her through. His throat choked up and he couldn't say anything. So he just pulled her closer to him, willing her to understand what he couldn't say.

And she did. Molly always did.

That night in bed, he wrapped his arms tight around her, afraid that she will just disappear. Her slow breathing calmed him and he felt safe. Their fingers interlaced and their warmth joined into one. He felt the broken bond between them starting to mend. As he kissed her forehead, he knew that they were fixing each other, bit by bit. He never wanted to let her go.

"I need you Molly Hooper." He whispered in her ear softly, before succumbing to sleep.

* * *

_I don't know what possessed me to write this but I just had to get it off my chest. It's very different from what I usually write._

_What did you guys think? _

_Pls review, all types of feedback appreciated! =)_


End file.
